Between the Lines
by Froody
Summary: Budge up, stand down, and strap yourself in for a Romantic Proposition, a Misunderstanding, and a cheeky dose of Metaphorical Man-Love.


Howard Moon and Time had shared many shades of acquaintance in the long stretch of their years together. They were good friends, old friends, sometimes hardly friends at all – especially if Time wanted to make another game of it (chess).

In recent years, Howard had become rather uncomfortably close with the old bastard. Insidious silver bristles and creaky knees were all part of Time's interminable practical joke. The only one to find it funny these days was a walking can of hairspray who tended to note every sign of Howard's aging with the brand of glee unique to schadenfreude.

Quietly, Howard was just counting down the days until some foolish white hair flung itself into the glorious field of flowing black. There would be tears. There would be tweezers. There would be no more taunting evermore.

Then again, Vince would probably off himself, so there'd be no more of much else either. (Howard made a mental note to start some midnight barbering of his own. Arm himself with some stealthy sachets of hair dye.)

Not that Time seemed to pay much attention to Vince as it was. Vince was the eternal child, Peter Pan out of green and in a wig. He passed his days less in mortality's grim shadow and more in the sunshine of blessed (or moronic) ignorance.

Not now. Right now, Time and Vince were about to get fairly well acquainted. No idle chit chat when Howard Moon made the introductions. Now, at this very moment, it was Time.

Time for Action.

Howard unbuttoned his muffin cuffs, rolled up his muffin sleeves, hooked a finger inside his muffin collar, and yanked it away from his muffin – scratch that – rather creamy northern neck.

The Time was Now. Conditions were perfect. A balmy night (the hail had petered out, anyway), an empty house (just the two of them), and no excuses – not tonight. You make a plan, you follow the plan, X marks the spot, and the treasure is yours.

The Treasure was sprawled out across the couch in his vest and pants, go go boots dangling from dented cushions. His feathered head was propped up by a selection of Howard's favourite records. This prompted a moment of pause from Howard, and a rather unhappy grinding from somewhere in the vicinity of his molars.

But the Time for Procrastination was over. So Howard stepped forward. Cleared his throat. Adopted the stance. Waited for silence.

"Couldn't move, could you, Howard? Only you've gone and flung your knee-cap shadow right into my light."

Slightly crestfallen, Howard grunted, removing his right boot from the arm of the couch. So much for the stance.

"Look, you've gone and left a muddy print on the fabric. Naboo'll shave away your cappuccino stain for this."

"Mocha," said Howard, and then frowned. This wasn't going well at all, was it? Falling into the old arguments certainly wouldn't help. The Time was ripe for Progress (and Vince never listened to the voice of reason anyway).

It was time for the vocal magic. The ancient art of persuasion. Dialogue. Discourse. Howard inhaled deeply through his nose, and, proffering a hand to his audience, prepared to channel Socrates himself.

"Well, look here, Vince. I mean, come along now. What I mean to say is, well, that, you know. You know, don't you? I mean, look at you – and, and me, and all that. Yes? No? Do you, I mean, will you? That is to say–"

"Howard," interrupted Vince, and his voice was as low and soothing as an airbus in flight. "You've gone wrong."

"Look, Vince," Howard said, all red and flushed about the ears. "You need to give me a hand here. I can't just come out with it."

"Why not?" Vince asked, obviously bored. "You come out with it all the time. You spout rubbish like a garbage truck in reverse."

Howard shifted his weight, feeling extremely discomforted and uncertain. Perhaps Now was not in fact the Time he had been anticipating.

"You constipated again? I think we've still got all the prunes left in the fridge from last time–"

"I'm not constipated, am I, Vince?" Howard exploded, driven solidly over the edge. "I'm trying to tell you that I, that, well–"

"You lost your keys? You summoned a demon? Did I spill jam in your favourite socks again?"

"For heaven's sake, Vince," said Howard, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, "this isn't about jam. This is far from jam. It's not even about socks, is it? Can't you just read between the lines?"

For a blessed moment, all was quiet. Something like hope hung feather-light in Howard's chest, and he blinked open to find Vince still sprawled across the couch beneath him, staring blankly back into his eyes.

"What lines?"

Howard groaned, and the feather in his chest plummeted at a velocity uncommonly reached by feathers.

"Between which lines, Howard? The ones on your forehead? The ones at the corners of your eyes? The ones–"

"Metaphorical lines, you muppet. And those aren't lines, Vince, they're shadows. My skin is as smooth as melted marmite."

"I don't think so, Howard. Word on the street is that you're the new face of botox. The Before Face, that is."

"Well, laugh it up, Larry Laugh-a-lot," Howard growled, swiping at the records pillowing Vince's smug little head and sending the whole lot toppling to the floor.

Vince yelped, tumbling backwards a bit. He shoved his way upright amongst the cushions and sat there, glaring up at Howard, skinny little chest heaving. "Cool your boots, alright? They're all – what's the word – dignified, yeah? Make you look like a secret agent, give you that Sean Connery edge, that what you want to hear?"

Howard sighed, shoved Vince's knobbly knees out of the way, and collapsed onto the couch, head and arms flung backwards in defeat. Time had bested him again, hadn't it? They could all laugh it up while he sat here frowning, collecting wrinkles like Vince collected fans.

"Look," said Vince after a moment, his voice betraying a shade of discomfort – maybe even, miracle of miracles, the barest hint of guilt. "I never said the lines were a bad thing, did I? You should see the lines on Jagger's face. You'll never be able to compete with Jagger."

"No," said Howard, with feeling. "I don't suppose I will."

After a reverential pause, Vince started again. "Anyway, I look between your facial lines all the time, just like you told me to. Your face – well, it's not so bad, really, is it?"

"Much as I appreciate the sentiment, Vince," said Howard hastily, flushing a little, "the lines I referred to are metaphorical, aren't they? Imaginary."

"How am I supposed to read between imaginary lines? I don't know what they say. What if my imaginary lines say something different to yours?"

Howard slumped even further into the couch. The grooves in his forehead had somehow deepened.

"They never went into this on Play School," Vince finished emphatically, and shook his head. Somehow, even with his eyes squeezed firmly shut and a headache well on the way, Howard saw the sly glance that the electro ponce flashed his way. "Then again, they never did spend much time covering well useless pick up lines, did they?"

Without moving, Howard tried to burrow his way into the couch. Metaphorically.

There was more than a touch of amusement in Vince's voice. "I'm playing with you, aren't I, Howard? Soon as I saw your face just now, I knew you were going to come on to me. Call it – reading between the lines."

"You cheeky little tart," Howard growled, head rising to a more-or-less upright position. His moustache stood out darkly against the furious rouge of his face.

"I'm right, aren't I?" laughed Vince, obviously delighted. He was all bundled into an energetic little hunch, boots folded right up beneath him, bum propped up comfortably on a cushion. "You've been aching to have a little sticky between my lines, right, Howard?"

"Shut your mouth, Sonny Jim," said Howard, gaze aimed strictly away from Vince's jaunty knees. "I'll ask you to keep your lines to yourself."

"Can't be done, Howard," Vince replied smugly. "They're metaphorical. Got lives of their own. And you know what?"

"What?" asked Howard tiredly, quickly sinking back into that old familiar mire of humiliation.

"They've had enough of the reading."

Howard's eyes shot up in surprise as a tangle of bare electro limbs managed to appear very suddenly right in his lap. "Vince," he started cautiously, trying hard to remember to breathe. "What are you–"

"They want to be crossed, don't they?" Vince murmured huskily from above, pulling Howard's gaping mouth closer and then closer towards his lips. They kissed then, all warmth and terror and panic and sheer pleasure, and then Vince pulled away.

"Fuck metaphors," he laughed with relish, threw his hair back, and launched back in for more.

Time for Action indeed.


End file.
